


Authority Figures

by 68932



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/68932/pseuds/68932
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cabanela gets a job as a substitute teacher, but quickly realizes he's not in the right place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> It's a high school au if anyone is lost...
> 
> Uh, not that this makes any sense at all but potential hot for teacher Yomiel/Yomielle in later chapters??
> 
> Also I have no idea how tagging works/if I can tag chapters individually or not so sorry in advance

Humming cheerily, Cabanela twirls his keyring around a long finger. It's going to be a beautiful day, the sun sits fat and low in the sky, and the birds sing happily, having awoken long ago. Everything seems to be going well, he woke up before his alarm and managed to make it out the door ten minutes early. It may be only a substitute teaching job, but hey, he's not about to complain. With a stylish argyle sweater vest, and new set of glasses, he looks the part, at least. The building is kind of imposing though. Is this what schools look like nowadays...? 

Hulking grey towers loom over a boxy, concrete structure that looks more like a medieval fortress or a prison than a high school. Nonetheless, Cabanela's not about to let this style-challenged building bring him down. Surely it's a lovely school on the inside, right? And even if it isn't a looker, hey even the Mona Lisa's missing her eyebrows. Yeah, everything's going to be just fiiiine.

Busting through the glass doors with a signature grin, Cabanela crosses the gleaming tile floor with easy, long strides. He can see it already, groups of children clamoring to learn, kids looking on with serious expressions as he reads from a textbook. Oh, he just can't wait. Pushing up his thin-rimmed glasses, he consults the  slip of paper with his classroom. What is that, E-6? Squinting over the rim of his glasses, he frowns at the sheet. That's all fine and dandy, but where is E-6?

Surveying the surrounding area reveals no map or any sort of navigational device, so might as well explore, huh? It's as good a time as any to get to know the place, hey, maybe he'll even impress the boss of this place, who knows. Good thing he left early though since Cabanela sure isn't about to be late to his first class here. That is, if he can find the damn room. After what seems like endless exploration through identical grim, grey hallways, he finally stumbles upon something that seems right. It's the E hallway, anyway. 

And he's not even late! Grin restored, he takes a moment to smooth through his vibrant, brown hair, before reaching for the door. Pushing it forward, he steps into the room. "Helloooo!"

 

 


	2. Homeroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything with Cabanela gets way more hits than the azuls.
> 
> You're all trash.

Bored teenagers litter the classroom, some hanging from the back of the chairs as they balance precariously to talk to friends behind them, other collapsed on their desks completely, taking advantage of the temporarily teacherless room to catch up on some sleep. Amidst all the chaos, Tengo sits resolutely in the front of the room, well, as close as he can get without being towel-whipped in the locker rooms. He's not about to descend to the level of the braces-wearing, textbook-carrying skinny kids in the first row who get taken out in the first round of dodgeball - a sport loved by the principal because "It hones your reflexes and increases pain tolerance!"

The second row is pretty damn good, in the scheme of things. It's close enough to see the board, and hear everything the teacher is saying, over that inevitable hum that leaches forward from the back rows. There's only one problem, and it's "Hey loser, do you still color-coordinate your notes?" This is followed (or sometimes preceded by, if the thrower is feeling particularly wild,) several lovingly crumpled balls of notebook paper, sometimes with half-hearted notes still on them, to Tengo's utter horror. This is the problem with sitting in the second rows, and it's name is Jeego.

Tengo's fairly certain he can remember a time of relative peace in kindergarten, where they coexisted rather well for quite a while, until Jeego learned that he had teeth, and teeth were for biting, and he sank his teeth pinky-nail deep into Tengo's arm. Those were Tengo's first stitches, and while most of the kids at this school were wriggling out of their seats in jealousy when he finally came back from the hospital, Tengo wasn't very happy about it. And then of course, the awe shifted to the teeth that had done such a thing, and then came middle school, when Jeego took the girls out at recess to "Try it out," and here we are, with Tengo stuffing his collection of highlighters into his desk, and Jeego pelting him with paper projectiles that elicit laughter from every kid in the back, at least the one's who aren't watching that blonde girl apply and reapply her lip gloss with smooth, teasing strokes.

Tengo tries to tell himself that it doesn't bother him, when he's lying asleep at night replaying the days events, that when he's older he'll have the satisfaction of looking down on Jeego from the highest rungs of the career ladder. Who cares if he's a year ahead? It'll only make the revenge sweeter.

Jeego's sprawled flat across his desk now, trying to build a paper-ball snowman on Tengo's head, when the classroom door busts open, a cheery "Hellooo!" filling the air. This certainly doesn't sound like any teacher they've ever had before. A tall, lanky man sweeps inside, clad in a rather unflattering sweater vest, not that Tengo could say anything since he's almost certain that he has the same one somewhere in his closet. And he's pale. Very, very pale. Is this guy in the right place...?

He seems to be about as confused as the rest of them, well, the students that have bothered to look up, anyway. His face has gone even whiter, as if that was even possible, and his head darts back and forth as he takes in the room. The general disorder of it, the lack of care given to learning...and the vibrant skin tone of the students. It looks like this guy's on the wrong continent.

Tengo doesn't have much time to think about it though, since the barrage of attacks continue. Finally, a ball is lobbed rather delicately onto his desk. Before he can crumple it, a loud voice whispers into his ear, if you can call that whispering. "That's my math homework. It's not due until after lunch, so you've got plenty of time to finish it." Fortunately, the too-close mouth, and warm, wet breathing retreat almost instantly. The only thing that remains now is the faint music from that idiot next to him, tinny pop like the buzzing of a mosquito that you can never quite seem to squash.

From the front of the room comes the faint sound of the teacher clearing his throat. When it has no effect, he repeats it several times, until finally his voice thunders out over the hum throughout the room. With the room silenced, the scratch of chalk on the blackboard seems to scream throughout the classroom. The tall man smiles, a big, rich grin. "Now, my name is Cabanela. That's Mr. Cabanela to you. Shall we begin?"


	3. First Period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kinda boring but I love Beauty 
> 
> also I can't see Dandy as anything but a buttmonkey

Tengo's writing furiously, second row seat giving him just enough cover to hide the fact that the sheet of paper in front of him is printed with math problems, and doesn't correspond in any way to the anatomy of the human body. Homeroom was nice, a relief. There was silence for the first time in god knows how long. But this class is no different from any other day. Without the novelty of a fresh teacher, and one so pale at that, there's not much to distract from the dull text of human anatomy. And by that, he means entertain the back rows, whose chatter will surely seep forward throughout the course of the class. It's not like he needs to pay attention, no, he's heard the pistol-sharp crack of a broken bone enough to have it burned into his brain for eternity. The first time he'd hit Jeego back was in fourth grade, and the other boy had pushed him off the jungle gym. It was only an arm, at least that was what the nurse had said to him. Still, it was that sickening sharp wobble, where all of the sudden the thin arm that had held him to the metal bars only seconds ago swang like a limp rope.

The second time was in seventh grade, fist clenched too-tight and anger shimmering hot in his eyes like a mirage over the sand. He'd hit Jeego hard in the nose, fair and square. There was a crack, this slow, sliding crunch, whether his fingers or the other boy's nose, he didn't know for sure then. Jeego had fallen to the ground, snow-angeling in that wood chip flooring that all playgrounds seem to have. There was this sort of miraculous, lightheaded feeling, as if Tengo had suddenly pushed the pieces of his life into place. This was it. They were equals now, no, he was superior. He sent Jeego falling to the ground, thick sticky black-red blood spilling from his nose.

And then Jeego got up. Pulling himself to his feet, he had knocked the crooked nose back into place with the flat of his hand, blood running into his open mouth. Eyes narrowed, lips curling, he was smiling.

He'd gotten up and thrown Tengo into the concrete curb, breaking his collarbone with a snap that felt and sounded like lightning. 

It was shortly after this that Tengo realized if he wanted to be Jeego's equal then he would have to break every bone in his body. 

Jeego's the kind of guy who lives for a fight. And when he wins, because he doesn't lose, not ever, it's because the act of the fight, the hard, deep thud-smack that fists make on flesh, is what he enjoys. Hit him once, and he springs back up, hit him twice, and he jumps to his feet with twice the speed. Tengo knows it's not about the pain, he's seen him stub a toe, punch the wall and then nurse the wounded hand, but there's something in him that changes when someone else is throwing the punches. Maybe it's bloodthirst, plain and simple. He doesn't know. But he's fairly sure Jeego could be beaten into a bloody pulp and still enjoy it, as long as he came out on top.

Tengo's rousted from his thoughts by a sudden silence in the classroom. Uh oh. That's never a good sign. Stuffing the math worksheet into a folder, he straightens his anatomy notes in front of him. Blue is for bones, red is for the circulatory system. Pink for major organs, green for the ones that can be removed from the body without causing death...

Three rows behind him, a short boy leans forward, stretching his arm as far as it can go. Just a few...more...inches... He's so close, the muscles in his arm screaming as he grits his teeth. Almost there... And then the note is snatched from his trembling fingers. A whine of protest escapes from his lips, but it's quickly silenced by the stony expression of the teacher, who has the tiny piece of paper gripped in one perfectly manicured hand. "Dear Beauty," she reads. "You are so beautiful. Even when you wear the school uniform, which is ugly. Your eyes are pretty too. And your breasts, wow. Please go out with me. Love, Dandy."

"What a work of art," the teacher remarks drily. "Truly the next Lord Byron." Turning to the blonde haired girl, who snaps a piece of fat, pink bubblegum, she smiles smugly. "I assume you don't want this." Beauty laughs. Another piece of drivel from that desperate kid? "Not a chance." With a bored flick of her hand, the teacher sends the bit of paper flying into the trashcan. "Now, may we continue?" Beauty smirks back at Dandy, just long enough to convey her distaste, but not long enough for him to see it as the confession of her undying love, as many other looks have been misinterpreted so. Nah, she's got other guys to play with. Gaze heavy from under mascara-coated lashes, she sweeps dark eyes across the back row, saving a wink for the guy next to her. Sinking her fingers into today's elaborate updo, she pulls free the bobby pins and shakes out a shiny wave of golden hair. 

Hidden behind a cage of gilded strands, the back-and-forth begins, tall boy next to her leaning across his desk, slender fingers darting out to tuck the hair behind her ear. She pulls back, and his mouth falls open in frustration. Her fingers silences his lips, and it continues, teasing see-saw orchestrated to infuriate the lovestruck Dandy. Meanwhile Jeego's stuck in the third row, karmic punishment for being tardy, he guesses. There's some loser in front of him who's got his seat stuck absurdly far back. He's got a huge ass, Jeego muses thoughtfully. That must be it. A butt like that requires a large parking space. Still, regardless of whatever physical deformities you've got, there's no excuse for infringing on other people's space. His foot taps idly against the metal rung seemingly present on all chairs that have ever entered a school. The erratic rhythm of scuffed shoe and thin metal reverberates up the chair. _Tap tap taptap tap taptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap._ It's the vibrating shake of someone who's had just a little too much coffee, someone that's primed to go, ready and waiting, like a violin with the strings pulled too tight.

And when it comes, as he knows it will, there is nothing. No sudden movements, no desk kicked to the side, pencils and paper flying slow through the air like comical bits of childish shrapnel, no scrape of the metal chair bottom as it's lifted from the ground, and most of all, there's no impact. In a car crash, the front of our cars are designed to crumple so that they absorb the energy that comes from going 60 on a backroad with your kids loose and light like the first astronauts to discover antigravity and a tree rearing out of the darkness. It's the same thing with people, really. Only you're the one absorbing the force of a punch, and if someone decides to swing a chair at you, your teeth are going to pay the price.

But instead there's silence. Jeego puts on his best annoyed look, lips pulling back to show teeth when he talks. "What are talking about? I'm not doing anything." The second the guy turns around, he's at it again. _Taptaptap_ , like a kid with too much energy, a tiger pacing in a pen. _Tapataptap. Tapataptaptaptaptaptap._ He grins too-wide, grotesque, at the back of the boy's head. _Tapataptap._ His fingers run across the top of the desk, shoulders tight, eye narrowed.

_Taptaptap._

_Taptap._

_Tap._

The bell rings.  


	4. Passing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabanela realizes he's going to spending more time at this school than he'd like, Jeego picks a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch my writing skills go downhill chapter by chapter!
> 
> I filled out the chapter summary this time, though.

Overlapping chatter fills the wide hallways, slow-moving students traveling in lazy packs trickle to their next class. In the principal's office, Cabanela waits impatiently to see the principal. A bored secretary eyes him every once in a while, her hair pulled up into a tight bun. He can't quite see from the stiff, straight-backed chair he's sitting in, but he's preeetty sure she's comparing his skin tone to her own with a compact mirror. Great.

Long legs sprawled out in front of him, his slim fingers tap impatiently on the table beside him, mindlessly jumping through the rhythm of his favorite operas, songs that played on the radio on the way to school, anything with a beat. Finally, the heavy wooden door swings open, two very cowed-looking boys slinking from behind it. The secretary waves him in impatiently, giving him one last, slightly confused look, he imagines.

Greeting him on the other side of the door is a buxom woman, dressed in sharply tailored, head to toe black. The only hints of color are the flowing fabric of a low cut, white shirt framed by her jacket, and striking red lipstick. And, of course, her vibrant, blue skin. Peering over the top of her glasses, she fixes Cabanela with a piercing stare. "Yes?"

Well, that certainly wasn't the rather crotchety old man that he was expecting. For the most part, with his own school experience and the limited amount of substitute teaching he's done, it seemed that principals were almost always men, and they were either the morally bankrupt kind, who leered at their secretaries as they dangled elusive raises on hooks, or the angry ones. Those kinds of men had a temper worn short by time and an over-abundance of teenage misbehavior, and were generally best avoided.

"Principal…" Cabanela peeks over the top of his glasses, searching for a name. "Principal Braxtonbridge." Wow, how fitting. "I, uh, I think there has been some sort of mistake. In regards to my hiring." His teeth cut the words gingerly, unable to find the words that say 'No one fucking told me there were blue people here, and judging by the way your secretary was staring, I don't think you meant to do this." Perpetually unruffled, the principal stares up at him. Then, with curt, efficient movements, she pulls a sheet from a file folder in front of her. "It says here that your contract is for three months. Is that correct?"

He stammers, incredulous. "Well, yes, but-" Turning piercing green eyes on him, she slams the folder shut. "Then in three months you are free to seek other employment." Her full lips pull into a restrained smile. "There was no photo included with your resume. I did not imagine this sort of thing would happen. I am sure it will be a learning experience for us all. Now shoo, I'm not paying you to stand around." With that, she turns her attention back to the papers in front of her. As Cabanela leaves the room, the buzz of an intercom sounds. "No more visitors. I'm busy."

It looks like it's going to be a long three months...

 

Meanwhile, three floors down, and two halls over, Jeego's nose is dripping thick and red onto the ivory floors. It turns out, there's only so much _tapataptap_ a guy can take, and the second the bell rang he was pinned to the hallway wall by the back of his shirt, thick angry curses falling around him. The guy hadn't hit him, not at first, content to let his indignation fill the air until that smirk, that mocking smile had spread across Jeego's lips. It's a smile that resembles more the toothy grin of a shark than a hollywood star, full of mismatched crowns (more than you're worth, he sometimes spat,) and teeth chipped from a high school career of fists and concrete.

He takes a moment to enjoy the off-center punch, path warped by anger and inexperience before shoving the lanky boy backwards, foot landing smack in the center of the uniformed chest to send him falling into a row of lockers. Stopping to send another kick right in that delicate spot in your side where your ribcage has stopped but your pelvic bones haven't quite started yet, he pulls the kid up by the collar of his sweater. A couple of heavy, thudding swings to the chest should do it, the kind that'll shatter delicate fingerbones if you're not careful, and Jeego isn't, not in any way, but he's instinctual, experienced, and most of all he doesn't care. A broken finger is easy, cracked ribs will leave you eggshell soft and wishing you never had to breathe again. 

Jeego laughs, spitting red. Who needs to pay attention in anatomy when you've got the real thing right here? A crowd has gathered, of course, and if you know anything about high school you know the strange way circles form out of nothing whenever a fight start, but this one is reedy, silent. Mosts fights are loud, noisy affairs with accusations thrown more than punches, and the audience churning up bloodlust like they were at a roman coliseum. There's none of that here, though. After three years, most people have learned that there's no drama or gossip to be pulled from the punches, and at most they'll spare a passing glance. 

Teachers, however, have different ideas, and this is one those boring times where he's hauled to the principal's office. He's been here countless times, sitting, waiting, _tick-tock tick-tock_ , watching the clock creep by, but that heavy door's never opened. Whoever's in there is always too busy to deal with him, and he gets carted off to the next class by whatever impatient teacher was unfortunate enough to find the scene. This time, though, the door creaks open, angry voice echoing down the hall. "I thought I told you no more appointments!" The principal glides into the hall, somehow still managing to look regal while seated on a spinning chair, and looks straight at Jeego. 

Jeego, who's dripping fat drops of blood onto the white carpet, Jeego with blood on his shirt, blood in his mouth, on his teeth, Jeego with his rumpled clothes and raw knuckles. "My office. Now." He closes the door behind him, almost like he's waiting for her waver, waiting for her to look at him, _really_ look at him, and ask him to open it, but she doesn't. She doesn't say anything about the blood dripping from his nose onto the plush carpet, or the slouched way he sits.

The principal looks at him, curious almost, smiling. But there's something else too, anticipation almost, excitement."Look," she says. "You're talented, more than you know." If this were anyone else Jeego would have snorted, nose be damned. But he doesn't. "You need to pull your punches here. One day, you'll all be working together. Maybe not directly, maybe you won't quite know it, but everyone is here for a reason, and you know that."

If it was anyone else telling him what he 'needed' to do, he'd be spitting condescension. But this is different. Something about her is different, magnetic. It's like she knows something, more than these moron teachers who regurgitate the same information year after year. She doesn't wait for an answer, and he doesn't give one. Halfway down the hall, escorted roughly by a disapproving teacher, he's still thinking about what she said.


	5. Second Period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third anniversary was yesterday but I spent all day at the mall 
> 
> (also I didn't know or remember)
> 
> oops

Sitting straight backed in math class, no matter how much he wishes he could be slumped across his desk, Tengo thinks maybe this is peace. No broken bones in a while, just doing Jeego's homework. Maybe in his own way things like 'Hey loser, do you still color code your notes?' are conversation. Not that tengo thinks he'd have much to talk to him about. He's fairly certain that Jeego doesn't keep up with current events or absorb much of anything taught in school, and 'Hey, remember that time you broke my arm in second grade? Me too.' doesn't have a great ring to it.

Besides, Tengo's not about to share his latest interest. To be fair, it's more because he's certain it would just give everyone more ammo to shoot him with, but he likes to think he's just being mysterious. It's foreign cop shows, things like CSI, Law and Order, Bones, and it's just absolutely fascinating to him. On one end because it's informational in a way, he argues with himself when he stay up putting off homework to watch just one more episode, but also because of the guns. Particularly the guns. There's this one episode where some guy climbs to the almost-top of an abandoned building, and shoots a guy in the adjacent office. From 300 feet he shoots than man through the forehead. It's the perfect shot.

There's only one problem.

Snipers are legendary for their perfect vision.

Tengo's not going to let that stop him, though. This is the one place where Jeego can't beat him.

With a sigh he smoothes the crumpled paper one last time. It's done. He twists behind him to float it onto Jeego's desk, not touching, not looking, not really. He doesn't see Jeego's turned back, hear the hard, sharp laughter, and the soft low echoing murmur that comes after it. Moments later, Jeego's up at the teacher's desk, looking a little too smug, just a little too condescending. "Due after lunch..." What an idiot.

Tengo spends a lot of time thinking about eclipses. How they can burn your eyes out, and the sort of horror they used to inspire in people who thought the world was going dark. But most of all, he thinks about how they're temporary. And yeah, maybe this one's been dragging out for too long, but the thing about eclipses is that they always end. The moon falls back behind the sun, the sun's shadow passes from the moon's face. The natural order is restored. All he has to do is wait.

Behind him, Jeego's slipped back three rows, leaning too-far back in his squeaky, metal chair as he watches Beauty sweep her hair up into another complex updo. He likes her, and that can't be said for many people. She's smart, and she's ruthless. Maybe that's the part he likes, that tension sleeping inside her, like a live wire waiting for foolish touch. Today she's got on this shockingly bright lip gloss, thick over her lips like some sort of pink tar pit, or the nectar of a sundew. Jeego figures that they're not so different, only she likes her prey to come to her.

He's poised to watch her reel in someone new,  waiting for the snap of the venus flytrap closing. The jerky-overblown movements of someone taking his seat distracts him, smile that had stretched his lips shrinking, turning to a flat line. Jeego's possessive, add it to the endless laundry list of his faults. Somewhere inside he's still five and on the playground, screaming when someone tries to take his toys. And so he watches dull-eyed as the group slides into the second row, leaning just a little too far forward, smiling just a bit too big.

The whispers start soon after, and then a heavy kick rocks Tengo's desk, scattering his pencils and pens. Low sniggers, and then one of them gets up to pass by his desk with heavy steps, faking a fall when jams his boot against the foot of Tengo's desk. His voice rises, accusatory, rising from the floor, supposed injury forgotten. Gesturing angrily to Tengo, he looks around the room and the other jump to their feet, circling around Tengo, pointing down at him. He's on his feet too, all of the sudden, about to reenact seventh grade on the playground, when the teacher's voice rings out.

Three rows back and two seats over, Beauty's got some guy by his tie, hair long and tousled, golden strands falling loose. Eyes never leaving Dandy's horrified face, she's pulled him in, simple, crude kiss turning base as she opens her mouth, tongue forcing its way into his. Fingers curled in her hair, his eyes never open. He can't feel the gaze of every person in the room, doesn't know that he's nothing but a prop for this game. Eyes flicking up to the clock, Beauty pushes him off of her. Smug, self-satisfied smile on her lips, she wipes her mouth on the back of her shirt. 

Gasps are drowned by wolf-whistles and cheering, triumphant soundtrack for Beauty as she reapplies her lip gloss just a little bit too slow, teasing. The teacher shouts again, this time breaking through the noise. "This sort of behavior is unacceptable for a classroom! To the office, now!" She takes her sweet time leaving, much to the teacher's ire, his hands shaking and face growing redder by the second. The bell rings just seconds after she exits the classroom, sound of her shoes still echoing, with their heel a full inch above uniform regulations.  


	6. Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do something for gt's anniversary + 100 hits but we're past both of those now and I'm lazy trash so all you get is this

The bell rings, and Jeego splits from the pack of rushing students, low mumble relief of their release from class washing down the hallway like a wave. With a glance behind him, he slips out of the one of the doors marked "exit," jogging down two sets of stairs to find himself at his usual spot. Desolate and concrete, like so much of the school, it's on the other side of the school from the room where the teachers eat, giving him relative privacy - and silence - for the first time all day. 

Pulling a beat-up lighter from his pocket, he lights a cigarette, the first of many. He holds the smoke in his lungs too-long, letting the heavy smoke burn in his lungs. When he does exhale, it's a smooth, lazy motion, letting the smoke drift from his lips in twisting, abstract form. It curls up into the gray sky, and he wonders idly if someone will see it as it passes their window. The cigarette burns down to the end, heat threatening to blister his fingertips. Taking one last drag before he smashes it under the tip of his shoe, his mind wanders back to class. The lighter hisses again.

Four floors up, Tengo's in a window seat in the library, staring out at that same gray sky as he picks at his lunch. Despite whatever connotations come with eating in the library, it's not something that bothers him. To him, the promise of peace and quiet is worth more than whatever social inclusion with the idiots downstairs he might gain. Besides, he has no patience for the sort of people that are more likely to throw their food than eat it. He's halfway through a misshaped sandwich, and 2/3 of the way through a book on modern warfare, when too-loud, shuffling footsteps break the dusty silence. 

He doesn't have to look to know who it is, and scooping up his lunch, he ducks into a row of looming, metal shelves. It's shame to leave the book behind, half-open and out of place, but one of the librarians will find it and restore order. Sparing one last glance back, he follows the rows to the front of the library, slipping out of the door. Only moments later he's arranging his lunch on his lap, thankful that the bathrooms stay empty during lunchtime. Underneath him is a thick layer of toilet paper. Tengo's never quite been convinced about the cleanliness of the school bathrooms. 

Meanwhile, Beauty sits in the principal's office, hoping good posture and "Yes ma'am, no ma'am," can get her out of here before she misses lunch. She can't exactly conceal her surprise when the principal ushers her into her office, and the first thing out of her mouth is "What a lovely shade of lip gloss!" Smiling conspiratorially over her desk, she pulls a tube of lipstick from her purse. "I always favored lipstick myself. It's more mature, and a lipstick stain is so much better than a lipgloss smudge." Three more shades appear from the depths of her bag, and she spreads them on the table in front of her. "Which one do you like?"

This certainly isn't what Beauty was expecting, but she's not about to explain. Hell, she'd always though the principal was some crotchety old woman. Grasping a brilliant red shade similar to the principal, ("Mrs. Braxtonbridge," she reads. "What a name.") her fingers curl around the unfamiliar metal tube. The older woman shows her how to put it on, how to open her mouth and hold her lips. When Beauty's finished, she pulls a mirror from her purse and turns it towards her. "Look at you. A little older, huh? And it looks a little dangerous, right?" 

Beauty turns in the tiny mirror, pulling model poses she's learned from magazines, eyes lidded and lips parted. It does look good, more mature, but like a movie star draped over the leather seats of a convertible, cigarette hanging from her lips, rather than an old woman. The principal smiles at the look in her eyes. "So, why don't you tell me why you're here?"

The two of them spend the rest of lunch sharing stories, after Beauty elicits a very unladylike laugh from the Mrs. Braxtonbridge as she explains her antics in class.


End file.
